


Bittersweet Memories

by Lakritzwolf



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Food Porn, Gen, bittersweet memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-08 22:15:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13467681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lakritzwolf/pseuds/Lakritzwolf
Summary: It is the memory of little things that make you think of home, more often than the big ones.





	Bittersweet Memories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VivaRocksteady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivaRocksteady/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Marzipan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12105360) by [VivaRocksteady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivaRocksteady/pseuds/VivaRocksteady). 



> VivaRocksteady wrote a story about Agron’s childhood memories, and I felt so sad for him that I needed to make him happy again. So I made him butter. This may not make much sense if you haven't read Marzipan. Which I strongly recommend, as it is a beautiful story and worth your time. 
> 
> Translations are in the end notes.

It is the memory of little things that make you think of home, more often than the big ones. Memories, long forgotten, awoken by the tiniest of things.

Agron had never since his capture spoken so much of his home and childhood, and all because of something as small as a bowl full of butter. Nasir had listened and had offered comfort as best as he could. Yet he had almost no memories, bar that of his brother, a face not even clear in mind anymore, and together with it, the taste of marzipan. So he had nothing to talk about, but he listened.

But some things are just not meant to be. Cows were in short supply, meat even more so. In the end, Agron fed the churn to the flames after all. They could not afford unnecessary baggage and needed firewood more than memories.

Only days after, the rebels came across a large estate, a villa surrounded by buildings and enclosed by fields and pastures. The Dominus was a wealthy man, but his guards could not stand against an army.

There were slaves there who, just like Nasir when he had still been Tiberius, were not in favour of the rebels. They had had rank and standing, comfort, food, and even a small income with the prospect of freedom. Now, they had nothing. Spartacus knew whom to keep eyes on.

There were others, however, who greeted their freedom and those who brought it with joy.

One of those was the cook, a big, hearty woman with round cheeks and wisps of greying hair sticking out from under her head scarf. She handed out bread to the children, fearlessly swatting larger hands away, and as fearlessly, demanded to speak to the leader.

Spartacus received her, amusement clear on his face.

“I would have you know,” the woman said, “that your men are not to lay waste to neither herds nor crops. Hungry you may be, but destroying what they find now will only cause hunger later. Keep them away from the livestock for now.”  
“I will have it so,” Spartacus replied. “I take it you are in charge of stocks and supplies.”  
“I am,” the cook replied. “And I would have it remain so.” She glared at the man who was leading an army as if she was talking to an adolescent boy.

“We shall take care of it,” Spartacus said then. “In the meantime, my men are hungry too. I would have you feed them as well.”  
“I see it done.” She bowed her head.  
“What is your name?” Spartacus asked.  
“They call me Lisana.”  
“And what is your name?”

The woman chuckled which made her bosom tremble. “I was born Frigga, and I-”  
“You were born east of the Rhine?” Agron shoved past Spartacus, eyes wide in delight. _“Sind wir von gleichem Blut?”_  
The woman stared up at him, her eyes misting over. _“Noch einmal im Leben die Sprache meiner Mutter zu hören, ”_ she sighed and shook her head. _“Die Götter haben meine Gebete erhört.”_  
Argon smiled brightly at her and rested his hands on her shoulders. _“Und mehr von unserem Blut sind auf dem Weg zu uns.”_

Before the woman could reply Crixus stepped forward with a frown. “Speak so everyone understands you.”  
“Do you think we plot rebellion?” Frigga asked sharply.  
“He’s a Gaul,” Agron said, and almost apologetically.  
Frigga looked Crixus up and down. “Tcha,” she said and shook her head; clearly, she shared Agron’s sentiment towards Gauls.

Crixus inhaled heavily through his nose while Spartacus stroked his hand down his mouth and chin a few times. “Take back to your kitchen and see out people fed,” Spartacus said to Frigga. “Also the Gauls, if you please.”  
“As if I would let a hungry man go hungry,” Frigga said proudly. “Frigga will see to it.”

She left the tent, and everyone looked at Agron who was grinning brightly.

“Nasir might become jealous,” Spartacus said with a smirk. “But we have yet more duties before you can pursuit romance.”  
Agron looked at him, blinked twice, and his grin turned into an embarrassed smile. “What would you have me do?”

* * *

It was evening when Agron, Nasir and Saxa entered Frigga’s kitchen in search for the cook. Agron and Saxa immediately engaged the woman in conversation that Nasir could not follow; he had no knowledge of Agron’s mother tongue as teaching languages had low priority in the last months.

His ears caught a few words he understood, or thought he understood, until he heard one that he knew all too well. He turned around from inspecting a shelf full of spices and shook his head with a grin that was half fond, half exasperated.

“You still have not made peace with butter?”  
Agron gave an embarrassed grin. “I cannot help it.”

Still smiling, Nasir shook his head again, but held his silence.

“Romans,” Frigga said and threw up her hands. “The things they will eat could curdle any man’s stomach! And calling our fare crude and barbaric!”  
“Such insult must weigh heavy on you,” Nasir replied cautious.  
“And whence do you hail, little man?” Even as woman, Frigga topped Nasir by almost a handbreadth.  
“Syriah,” Nasir replied, used to the words that were not really meant as insult. “Yet I was a child when I was taken, I recall neither food nor language.”

Frigga shook her head mournfully. “Fucking Romans,” she muttered. “I too was hardly more than a child, fourteen years of age, when they took me. A thin, frightened girl I was when Dominus brought me here.”

It was hard to imagine a thin, young girl in this thick-waisted matron, but the look in her eyes spoke more than her words.

“So you must miss your homeland fiercely,” Nasir said gently. “And the food as well.”  
“True,” she said. “Yet we must make the best of the lot the gods have given to us.” Then she turned to Agron again. “Would that I could help you, _Sonnenschein_. _Ein Prachtkerl wie du braucht was ordentliches im Magen um bei Kräften zu sein, im Kampf und in der Liebe._ ”

Agron actually blushed. Saxa burst out laughing and laughed so hard she doubled over.

“What did she say?” Nasir asked, both confused and amused.  
“I rather spare myself humiliation,” Agron replied.

Saxa was still snickering, and the matron of the kitchen turned to her oven.

“New bread will be ready soon,” she said. “Wish I could help you, but do not have what I need.”  
“I shall provide,” Agron said quickly. “I but need wood and tools.”

After instructions were given, Frigga rolled up her sleeves and set to pulling the loafs out of the oven. Steaming and crunchy, they tasted heavenly even without butter.

Agron spent the night building another churn. And when he presented it to Frigga the next morning, the matron patted his cheek in a motherly fashion and ordered one of the maids to milk the cows.

“It will not be ready until tomorrow,” she said. “Apologies, but the milk needs to set.”  
“Set?” Agron tilted his head.  
“Oh my boy,” Frigga said and shook her head. “You do not make butter of milk. Cream is what you need. Let the milk rest overnight, and the cream will settle on top. You skim, and take the cream to make butter.”

“I forgot too much, it seems.” Agron gave an unhappy shrug, and the cook patted his cheek again.

“Trust,” she said. “I will see it done in the morrow.”

Nasir was sure Agron’s dreams were full of cows, cream and butter that night. He could not stop shaking his head, but he loved his German warrior fiercely and was all too happy on his account.

* * *

The smell of baking bread greeted them as Agron and Nasir entered the kitchen, even before they had broken fast. And with a smug, satisfied smile, Frigga presented him with a bowl filled with shiny, golden butter. It looked way better than what Agron had been able to produce.

“Take to it,” she said and lathered butter onto a slice of bread that had come out of the oven not so long ago.

It was warm enough to make the butter melt, and Frigga watched with soft eyes as Agron devoured the bread while fighting his tears.

“This,” he said to Nasir, his mouth so full that it was hardly discernible, “this is what it should be.”

He shoved the last bite into Nasir’s mouth, and Nasir closed his eyes with a blissful sigh.

“It is good,” he said. “I understand why would crave it so much.”

Frigga turned to the table where she continued kneading a large batch of dough. Due to all the hard work in the kitchen her forearms rivalled that of a warrior. She clearly was a force to be reckoned with, crossed at one’s own peril.

Chewing on another slice of fresh, buttered bread, the two watched as Frigga dropped more lumps of butter into the dough she was kneading, and when she deemed it done, she started forming small balls out of it. She lathered those with even more butter, and then she sprinkled them with a brown, grainy substance.

“Brown salt?” Agron asked.  
“No,” Frigga replied proudly. “Sugar.”  
“Sugar?” Agron was confused.

“Sugar,” she said again. “It comes from the lands to the south and east, brought by ship across the sea, and worth its weight in gold. Dominus was always keen on presenting visitors with wealth.” She gestured at the balls she had made. “Those were Domina’s favourite, sweetbread with sugar and cinnamon. I remember my mother baking milk bread, but we had neither sugar nor cinnamon.”  
“I can hardly wait,” Agron said, almost as giddy as a child.  
“It will be worth it,” Frigga promised.

The smell coming from the ovens was divine, rich and fragrant and spiced with cinnamon. It attracted children as well as adults.

Frigga handed out the small, sweet buns dripping with butter and covered in spicy sweetness. Agron chewed with his eyes closed, moaning ecstatically between bites.

“Would that I could make you moan like that,” Nasir remarked drily.

Agron opened his eyes and with a smile, held out the roll to him. The smell alone was enough to make your mouth water, and the way the soft, succulent dough melted on the tongue made Nasir hum with pleasure as well.

In search of morning meal Spartacus and Crixus joined Agron and Nasir in the warm and cosy kitchen, and both newcomers watched them as they devoured sweet rolls as if there would be no tomorrow.

“Would that any man looked at me like they look at my baked goods,” Frigga said with a fond smile.  
“You are a goddess,” Agron mumbled around his full mouth. “I would ask for your hand were I not spoken for already.”  
Frigga laughed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear that had escaped her headscarf, leaving a smudge of flour on her cheek. “And I would accept were I not old enough to be your mother,” she said, still laughing. “But worship me all the same.”

She handed both Spartacus and Crixus a cinnamon roll.

“Hot love and kisses cool off with time, while cooking only gets better,” she said. “My cooking to be praised long after any man would think of me as a woman to be desired for her looks alone.”

Spartacus was too busy chewing to reply.

* * *

The Roman soldiers that had been in pursuit were annihilated with little effort, their number too small to put up much of a fight. A few had managed to get past the villa walls, only to be cut down by Crixus, Spartacus, Nasir, and Agron.

A scream coming from the kitchen startled them all, as it had not been a woman’s scream, and moments later a Roman soldier ran stumbling out of the door clutching the stump of a bleeding arm lacking the hand.

“A fiend!” He screamed. “Save yourselves!”

As he was impaled by Nasir’s spear, Frigga appeared in the door wielding a cleaver as large as an axe.

_“Und bleib draussen du römischer Hurensohn!”_

“He shall not bother you again,” Agron said, nodding towards the corpse that had stopped twitching. “And remind me never to cross you.”

Frigga harrumphed and turned back into her kitchen.

“Fiercest is the gentlest soul when fury is finally stirred,” Spartacus said, his eyes on the door to the kitchen.  
“She rivals warriors,” Nasir said with a nod. “A force to be reckoned with.”  
“As are all women of my blood,” Agron said proudly. “Although not all are a goddess of flour and-”  
“If you say the word butter one more time I shall relieve you of your tongue!” Crixus snapped.  
“Sugar,” Agron said, smiling brightly.

Nasir could not suppress a snort. Crixus exhaled heavily through his nose, and left the courtyard in forceful strides.

* * *

Agron sought out Frigga in her kitchen that evening, in secrecy and alone. He conversed with her a while, and left her with a smile that made Nasir give him a puzzled look. Agron did not reveal the reason for his smile, and set to the task of making Nasir forget his confusion. With great success.

* * *

Agron headed into Frigga’s kitchen the next day shortly after the midday meal.

“Not quite yet,” the matron of the kitchen said. “Too much baking to do.”

With camp struck and a bit of leisure at hand, he loitered a bit and watched the cook wield her magic. She threw several handfuls of almonds into boiling water, then drained them after only a moment before throwing them into a bowl with cold water already waiting. After such treatment she started peeling them, and the brown skin slipped easily off, revealing the white kernel beneath.

“Gratitude,” Agron said as he watched her pound some sugar to dust before pouring it into a bowl. “It means a lot.”  
“Without doubt,” Frigga replied and continued grinding almonds into a paste. “I saw how you look at your little man.”  
“Do not underestimate him,” Agron gave back. “He is as fierce a warrior as Crixus or Spartacus.”  
“I saw him fight yesterday, and how he impaled that Roman like the pig he was.” Frigga scraped almond paste into the bowl. “It is but a small reward.”

She reached for a small vial on the top shelf and opened it carefully. “Rosewater,” she said. “Almost as precious as the sugar itself.”

Only a few carefully measured drops were added before the vial went back onto the shelf, then Frigga started kneading. “I shall be done by the time you return with your man,” she said and winked. “Let us hope for desired outcome.”

* * *

“I am not overly fond of surprises,” Nasir said as Agron dragged him into the kitchen.  
“You will like this one,” Agron promised.

Nasir’s confusion only grew as Frigga presented him with a white bar as long as his hand. He eyed it in suspicion, and suddenly his eyes grew wide. He looked up at Agron who nodded with a gentle smile.

Nasir looked back at his hand and cautiously broke off a piece of the bar of marzipan. He inhaled the fragrance and slipped it into his mouth.

Moments later he had tears on his cheeks.

His eyes soft and slightly moist as well Agron pulled him close, and with a wistful smile of her own Frigga turned away and busied herself with another batch of flour to give them a moment of privacy.

“It tastes like home,” Nasir whispered, eyes still closed. “If only my brother was here to share it.”  
“We both have to be without our brothers,” Agron replied softly and dropped a kiss on Nasir’s temple. “But we do not have to be without remembrance.”

Now Nasir opened his eyes and broke off another piece of marzipan that he offered to Agron, who ate it from his fingers with a smile. Nasir smiled back, and Agron cupped his cheek in gentle hands and brushed tears away with his thumbs.

They shared a kiss, soft and tender and tasting of almonds and bittersweet memories.

**Author's Note:**

> Sind wir von gleichem Blut? - Are we of the same blood?  
> Noch einmal im Leben die Sprache meiner Mutter zu hören. Die Götter haben meine Gebete erhört. - To hear the tongue of my mother once more. The gods have heard my prayers.  
> Und mehr von unserem Blut sind auf dem Weg zu uns. - And more of our blood are on the way to us.  
> Sonnenschein - sunshine  
> Ein Prachtkerl wie du braucht was ordentliches im Magen um bei Kräften zu sein, im Kampf und in der Liebe. - A capital fellow such as you needs something solid in his stomach to retain his strength, be it for battle of for love.  
> Und bleib draussen du römischer Hurensohn! - And stay out you roman son of a whore!


End file.
